The Golden Boy of Molyneux
by civilwarrose
Summary: A look at Gaston's early life and his parents. Originally written for the Bittersweet and Strange forum's Fanfic Challenge and expanded upon in honor of Mother's Day. Oneshot.


**The** **Golden** **Boy** **of** **Molyneux**

Disney owns Beauty and the Beast and its characters.

...

The little village of Molyneux was like any other provincial village in northern France during the middle of the eighteenth century; it was generally self reliant, and its families had established themselves there for generations. Families were known mainly by their occupations. The miller, farmer, blacksmith and tailor were all doing their fathers' and grandfathers' jobs before them.

As in any town, there was a family in Molyneux that dominated over the rest. That family was the de Soleil clan. They had been the owners of a fine tavern and inn that served guests for years, and a man by the name of Jacques de Soleil had been a talented brewer in the early part of the century. His homemade beer and ale had drawn people from miles around. It gained him and the town the favor of Prince Alexandre, whose castle was nestled in the mountains overlooking Molyneux. The prince purchased his drinks, and his army of servants did their business in the town, bringing prosperity to all.

Jacques de Soleil died in the 1740's, and his son, Jerome, inherited the tavern. Jerome lacked the patience to be a brewer; he was a wild, aggressive man whose great passion was for hunting. He brought his version of prosperity to the town by bagging large animals regularly, while hiring a bartender to manage the pub and inn. Beer was purchased in neighboring cities, and Jerome ruled over his little kingdom every night by telling hunting tales over the fireside while the men listened admiringly. Jerome, a tall and handsome man, had married a girl named Genevieve, the most beautiful girl in the village. In 1745 they became the proud parents of a boy, who would be their only child.

Genevieve was a doting mother, but she and Jerome had high expectations for their little boy, named Gaston. Because she was so beautiful, Genevieve had expected her child to be equally as beautiful, but alas, for the first eight or nine years of his life, he was not.

Gaston de Soleil was a rather homely child. He had odd features- his chin was too big, his brows too prominent, and he had a cleft in his chin like his father's that was handsome on Jerome, but unattractive on a little boy. Genevieve was despairing of the fact that her child was not fawned over and given attention by old ladies as much as other children, due to his lack of prettiness.

One day, a traveling artist came to town the summer Gaston was four years old. The artist wanted to paint a portrait of a small child, and had asked all the mothers to bring their children to the town hall so he could choose one to capture in canvas. The portrait would be hung for years as a symbol of the town and its beauty and charm.

Genevieve and little Gaston gathered with all the other mothers and little ones. Monsieur Delacour looked over all of the children with a haughty expression. He had just come from Prince Alexandre's palace, where he had done a commissioned portrait of the royal family, including the prince's infant son, little Adam. The baby Adam had been a delight to capture in oils, he was definitely the most beautiful baby the Roccoco painter had ever laid eyes on.

Now, looking over the village children, Delacour tried to choose one who looked as angelic as the royal infant. There was one baby, but it was a red faced, squalling newborn. _Non_, much too young. There was a mother trying to control her toddler triplet girls, who were precious with their golden locks and porcelain skin, but all three were fussing and pushing each other. One triplet tugged another's hair, and her sister squealed, hitting her in the face in retaliation. The poor mother was mortified, as her very pretty but unruly little girls screamed loudly and began to scuffle. Some of the other mothers grinned at her in smug triumph.

Finally, knowing she had no chance, Lea Beaudette took her three little terrors home, promising them a cookie if they stopped crying.

Genevieve de Soleil stood in the now quieter hall, holding Gaston's hand.

"Can I go now?" Gaston complained. He looked over at a nearby little boy about his own age, a chubby child who was quietly sucking on a stick of candy. The other boy took the candy out of his mouth and held it out to him.

"Wanna bite?" he piped up.

Gaston answered by greedily snatching the candy out of his neighbor's hand. The other boy looked slightly angry.

"Hey! That was mine!" he said indignantly. His mother looked down at him. "Shhh!" she shushed.

Gaston took a step forward and looked down at the boy menacingly.

"It's _mine_ now."

Gaston was considerably taller than the other boy. He had a natural aggressiveness and sense of superiority that he inherited from his father, and at the tender age of four, he was using it already to get what he wanted.

He put the candy stick in his mouth and crunched on it loudly. It tasted of cinnamon. Gaston hated cinnamon! _Yuck_!

Monsieur Delacour walked past Genevieve, and another woman named Jeanne Lefou, the candlemaker's wife. Both were standing behind their young sons. Gaston chose that moment to spit his mouthful of candy across the room.

_Ptooey_! A wad of spit and candy went flying over ten feet, whizzing right past the renowned Rococco artist. He wrinkled his nose. _Vulgar_, _homely_ _child_, he thought.

Jeanne Lefou's little boy was impressed and delighted by this. _Wow!_ he thought. _He_ _sure_ _can_ _spit! __I_ _want_ _to_ _be_ _his_ _best_ _friend!_

He didn't mind now that Gaston had stolen his candy. He didn't like cinnamon either; he had wanted peppermint and was disappointed when it was the wrong flavor. He stayed quiet, because his mother had told him to be, but grinned bright-eyed at Gaston, who had brought humor and excitement into his otherwise dreary day. _No_ _one_ _can_ _spit_ _like_ _that!_

Monsieur Delacour paused in front of the two mothers and finally made his decision. He noticed the pudgy little four year old boy smiling with perfect teeth, and thought he looked so angelic, like a cherub with his chubby cheeks and dark brown hair and eyes.

"Madame," the artist said to Jeanne, "I would like to paint a portrait of your son. He is a sweet little thing, and I would be delighted to use him as a model."

All the other mothers oohed and aahed graciously over Jeanne Lefou and her son, Ignatius Antoine, affectionately called "little Iggy." Genevieve also gave her congratulations. As the wife of the most influential and popular man in town, she had to be dignified. She was disappointed in Gaston for acting like a little brute, as usual. She couldn't bear to punish him for such rude little behaviors; she was afraid of stifling his spirit. Jerome always said if she wanted a child who sat quietly and did nothing but obey, she should have had a girl.

Inwardly, she hoped and prayed that her boy, despite being a homely and ill-mannered child at present, would grow to be handsome, strong and commanding, just like Jerome.

She got her wish. Over the next years, Gaston grew into his looks. His face had the proportions that were ideal for the adult male aesthetic, and he became muscular and very, _very_ tall for his age. By the time he was nearly ten, the old biddies in town who had clucked and tutted over the "ugly" child started to come up to Genevieve in the market, gushing about how he was starting to resemble handsome Jerome. Lea Beaudette's three identical daughters would giggle and sigh any time Gaston strode past them.

The town hall in Molyneux, years later, still had a portrait of a cute, chubby little boy in a bow tie hanging over its hearth. The subject of that painting had grown out of his looks, while Gaston had grown into his. Little Iggy Lefou never lost his baby fat, as he grew he remained rotund at an age where boys began to aspire to be "lean and mean." He stopped growing at fifteen, at a height of only five foot one. He inherited his father's large bulbous nose, which had been a fetching little button nose in childhood. His permanent teeth grew in quite large, with wide gaps between them, and he had hands oddly large in proportion to the rest of him. The tables had turned when it came to the two boys' looks.

Gaston and Lefou went to a one room schoolhouse together starting when they were about eight. Gaston was not the best student. He barely learned to read, and he hated the printed word. The funny squiggles on the pages would turn and spin before his eyes. Still, he impressed the schoolmistress by bringing in a large turkey or goose he had shot almost every week; using it as a means to talk and brag about himself in class. Madame Rondeau found herself losing control of the small group of schoolchildren, because every day, the conversation would become about Gaston and not about arithmetic or her attempts at teaching history. She passed him along even though his reading ability was nil. After all, he was going to succeed his father as the town's chief hunter and owner of the prosperous tavern. He didn't need book learning for that.

When not in school, Gaston spent time in his father's pub, soaking in his father's personality and way of life. He learned that arguments were to be settled by whoever had the strongest fists, which invariably were Jerome's. He learned that there were two kinds of women, the kind who were to be at home like his mother, cooking and cleaning, and the kind like the big-chested woman at the tavern. She wore too much rouge and let Jerome touch her on the derrière making her giggle. He didn't understand why his father laughed and played and had fun with the bar lady, but was so mean and bossy to Mama at home.

Many times, Gaston would go with Jerome out in the woods, where he learned to track down animals and slaughter them with either a blunderbuss or archery. Papa would tell him he was a natural hunter, but he needed to get the big animals now, not just birds or rabbits. He was nine when he arrowed his first deer, a doe. Jerome did not praise him extensively for his effort that day; he just gave a curt nod and said, "Next time, you are _going_ to get a buck." Not an hour later, Jerome killed a buck, and when Genevieve saw her boys bringing such bounty home that night for her to cook, she was overjoyed.

The next week, Gaston _did_ arrow a buck, and it was a twelve pointer, an even bigger rack of antlers than the one Jerome had gotten their last outing. That was the accomplishment which indeed made Jerome proud. He displayed it in the family tavern and even gave the boy his first mug of beer, hailing his son in front of all the other men.

The next day at school, Genevieve came by and brought Madame Rondeau a delicious ground venison and vegetable pie that she had made with the extra meat, boasting that her son provided such a feast. The teacher was delighted. Sure, he could not read well- but he had such valuable practical talent that was so important to the village. She verbally set Gaston apart as being more important and special than any of the other boys and girls. Out in the schoolyard, he often impressed Lefou and others by picking off birds with his slingshot when Madame Rondeau wasn't looking.

Lefou, meanwhile, was an obedient boy, but clumsy and awkward. He was not a good student either, but a hopeless follower who trailed Gaston around like a puppy, carrying his things and sticking to him like glue, not minding the frequent punches and shoves he received. He was happy in his presence, because just like the candy-spitting incident when they were both tykes of four, Lefou found Gaston to be fun, tough, and exciting in his antics.

But the more time he spent with Gaston, the less respectful to elders he started to become. Gaston enjoyed cruelly making fun of old, lame or funny-looking people around town, and Lefou would feel obligated to laugh and taunt along with him. After all, if he didn't, than _he_ could be the one made fun of. He developed a dual personality, being sweet and good natured away from Gaston, but taunting and smart-mouthed when with him.

Gaston gave him some levity in his otherwise dull and dreary life. Lefou's mother Jeanne was often sick, so even as a little boy, he had to take over helping his father, Claude-Robert, at home as a candlemaker's assistant. Lefou would spend hours melting old used candles into wax to be reused and poured into new candle molds, holding a torch over them. Sometimes, to make the task fun, he pretended there was an evil spirit inside the candle, and he was destroying the demon when he torched it. He felt power he lacked when he did such things. This amusement was nothing, however, to the importance he felt whenever Gaston told him to clean his chalk slate for him at school, or to put a frog on Madame Rondeau's chair.

One winter day when they were both twelve, Lefou's admiration for Gaston, as well as that of the entire town, increased tenfold. Lefou was following Gaston around as always, when he fell through ice into the frigid lake. Gaston went back, irritated, but casually saved his life, effortlessly pulling him out and tossing him into a snowbank. Genevieve de Soleil and Jeanne Lefou were looking for their boys when they found them both at the lakeside. Gaston was celebrated in a special ceremony as a hero.

...

Gaston's idyllic childhood would soon take a tragic turn not long after that.

When he was thirteen, Genevieve became very sick one morning. She coughed and coughed so hard that she could barely breathe, making funny noises when she tried. She was unable to get out of bed and cook, so Jerome and Gaston went to the cafe for their breakfast before heading out to hunt. They figured she would be all right later; just a cold, after all.

When they returned in late afternoon, she was even worse. Her face was turning chalk white and her lips were purple due to lack of air. She gasped and made terrible sounds. Gaston rushed to the bed and looked into his mother's terrified blue eyes. Her expression was that of desperation and horror. He had to get help.

"Papa! We have to get the doctor! Right now!"

Jerome entered the bedroom and as soon as he saw his wife, his face went pale. He bellowed angrily, looking up to the heavens.

"NO! MON DIEU, YOU CAN'T DO THIS!"

"Papa! You're scaring her! Just get the doctor!" Angrily, he rushed to his father and grabbed him by his collar with both hands, shaking him.

Jerome pulled his fist back and struck his son right across the cheek. Gaston, a big boy but still not as big as his burly father quite yet, went flying backwards and landed on the floor right next to his mother's bed. He turned around and saw her shaking with tears streaming down her cheeks. She gasped for air.

"It's going to be all right Mama. I'm here..."

But he was lying, he knew it. The symptoms were all the same. Three other villagers had died of a terrible disease over the last few months. One of those villagers was Jeanne Lefou.

Two months before, Gaston had attended the horrible funeral where his friend's mother, a plain looking but sweet woman who always greeted Gaston with her homemade croissants, was put in a pine box and lowered underground. His schoolmate was sobbing uncontrollably, as was Lefou's father. Gaston had felt awkward. He avoided the family for a while; as he didn't want their misfortune rubbing off on him. Soon, Lefou started coming over to Gaston's house again. He seemed to depend on the larger boy, seeing him as a source of protection as well as wanting to be his best friend. Gaston was glad his doting companion was back to his usual self, doing his bidding for him again.

Now, Gaston knew his own mother was going the same way as Lefou's did. When the doctor arrived, his grim visage confirmed it. Gaston stayed by Genevieve's bedside for two more days, and late at night on the second, she breathed her last.

Another excruciatingly painful funeral was held. Her pine box was covered with red roses, and as the priest's voice droned on, thirteen-year-old Gaston did not shed even one tear. He had to be strong. _Be_ _a_ _real_ _man_, Jerome said.

Jerome spent the next year drinking to excess and became mean and hateful to every man in the village, especially the men who still had wives. The patrons did not want to frequent his tavern anymore; Jerome de Soleil was a broken man, no longer jovial, entertaining or popular.

The tavern's business declined even more after it was learned that His Majesty Prince Alexandre and his wife had died of a very similar illness. Gaston remembered the day a stout, wigged man with fancy clothes and a foreign-sounding accent- an Englishman, the villagers said he was- came to St. Lucien's Church and proclaimed the sad news. The poor man was trying to act official in a comically pompous way, but he kept sniffling and dabbing his face with a handkerchief. After the announcement, the Prince's servant left with another elegantly dressed and bewigged man, a tall, slim younger fellow. The two could not stay around to answer the villagers' questions, because they had to get back to the little grieving Prince who was still alive and well in the grand castle.

Eventually, the castle servants who used to frequent the village stopped coming. It was as if the entire royal household vanished. It was assumed they all left for Versailles or Paris, leaving the castle empty. This was a terrible blow to Molyneux's economy.

With the tavern losing income, Jerome relied more and more on hunting. He went to the woods constantly, and more often he wanted to go alone, without Gaston. The boy was furious at his father; he needed him but the man was shutting him out.

One winter's day, Jerome de Soleil left on a long hunting trip alone. Gaston waited for days and days, and he never returned. Two men knocked on his door a few weeks later with horrible news.

Jerome had been caught in a blizzard in the deep forest. The blade runner of his sleigh had broken, and the great hunter froze to death.

Another funeral was held for his father, eighteen months after his mother's. Now there was only one person bearing the surname de Soleil left in the town. He was looked up to and admired as a golden boy, the "sun" of Molyneux.

The teenage boy's heart hardened, and he decided that _he_ was all he had. Molyneux was depending on him, and he vowed to himself he would be the greatest. And someday, perhaps in ten years or so, he would find the most beautiful girl ever, marry her, and carry on his family name.

_Make_ _no_ _mistake_ _about_ _that_.


End file.
